Braden pursed his lips, his thumbs in his armholes again. "Three hunderd and fifty, say," he compromised. "I'd be willin' t' give you that."
A moment since, the section-boss had been downcast. Now, he guffawed. "Would y'?" he asked; "would y'?" There was a sage gleam in his eye.
"I would."
Lancaster sucked his teeth importantly. "Y' couldn' hev it a cent short o' seven hunderd an' fifty," he declared.
"You'll never get it, sir, never. Five hunderd's a spankin' figger."
"Bah!"
"Telling you what's what. There's thousands of acres around here just as good as your'n any day in the week. But you got this end of the ford. That makes a little difference."
"Makes 'bout fifteen hunderd dollars' diff'rence."
It was Braden's turn to laugh. "My friend, you'll hist to two thousand pretty soon," he warned; and arose. "Better take five hunderd and fifty when it's offered." He flung out his hands as if he were feeding hens.
Lancaster got up with him, righteously angry. "Say, you ain't no South'ner," he cried. "Jes' a slick Yank. Ah c'n see through you like winda-pane!"